


Teething Problems

by Akaiba



Series: Wolf Fenris [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, it's complicated - Freeform, not werewolf, wolf fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akaiba/pseuds/Akaiba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris growls at him in reprimand again, tangling his hair in his gauntleted fist and baring Anders neck as the mage squawks in protest. “Hawke, what the fuck did Danarius say to him?!”</p><p>Edited by the lovely ioniafletcher, who can be found at ioniafletcher.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Fenris?”

 

Hawke carefully and very deliberately does not move as he watches Fenris stalk a slow circle around Anders. Danarius had barked a command at Fenris before the fight had begun but it doesn’t seem to have worked in his favour, his throat torn open by Fenris’ own hand. In the fight there wasn’t much chance to observe, yet the carnage the elf had wrought was noticeable.

  
Fenris growls and Hawke freezes mid-step. Anders shakes his head at Hawke frantically as he stays very still while Fenris steps behind him.

[__ ](http://dashingapostate.tumblr.com/post/130244979050/wolffenris-sketch-cuz-akaiba-is-killing-me-w)

_Art by the amazing[Dashingapostate](http://dashingapostate.tumblr.com/)_

 

“F-Fenris? Danarius is… he’s dead. You can, you know, snap out of it?” His voice tapers off breathily as Fenris rumbles with a softer growl, one of reprimand and less warning. Anders swallows and his mouth closes, eyes wide in alarm as Fenris leans in to scent his neck.

 

“Oh, Maker…” He chokes and his gaze meets Hawke’s, both of them gaping in shock, as Isabela wisely stays near the stairs. “Hawke… how literal was the ‘little wolf’ thing?” Anders asks softly, shivering when Fenris growls at him in reprimand again, tangling his hair in his gauntleted fist and baring Anders’ neck as the mage squawks in protest. “Hawke, what the fuck did Danarius say to him?!”

 

“I, uh… I don’t remember? I don’t speak Tevene…” Hawke’s eyes grow even wider as Fenris seems to reach a conclusion and lifts Anders over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, the mage yelping and wriggling until Fenris strikes his rear and growls.

 

“Did Fenris just…” Hawke shakes his head, because Fenris definitely did and then the elf strides from the tavern with the dumbstruck mage over his shoulder. He can only stare after them in horror and pray that they can reverse this, though Anders didn’t seem to be protesting all that much, his stunned expression pleading with Hawke before it had vanished behind the door.

 

-

 

“Put me down, you thick-headed-” He yelps at the strike across his rear, face flushing red. The fear of the blood stained growly elf stalking around him like his next target had worn off significantly at being thrown over his shoulder and carted off like… like… Anders’ face darkened further. This was not happening.

 

“Fenris, if you’re carting me off to kill me, please don’t.” That was the only conclusion, definitely not anything his addled mind was otherwise contemplating.

 

Fenris growls under him, the sound reverberating where Anders’ thighs are clamped to the elf’s pointy armour, the spikes on one shoulder jabbing Anders with each step. It sounds angered and offended, like Anders had any other reason to think what was happening would end in anything other than his grisly demise.

 

They pass from Lowtown into Hightown, the late hour granting no audience to Anders’ embarrassing entrapment as he tries to protest again.

 

“Fenris… I’m not sure what Danarius has done to you… but I assure you that this isn’t you, okay?”

 

Anders pauses but Fenris shows no sign of even listening as Anders pushes at the elf’s back, craning to look over his shoulder and reason with him.

 

“Listen to me! You blighted elf, this isn’t you!”

 

Fenris is going to snap out of this any second and hurl him to the floor in disgust. There’s still every chance he’s being taken somewhere to be murdered slowly. The tentative fear is shatters when Fenris’ free hand cups his rear warmly.

 

“Fenris!” He hisses and shoves at his back again. “Snap out of it!”

 

They’re near Fenris’ mansion, Anders realises with growing anticipation and shock. Each step is purposeful and takes them closer. Anders’ mind is feverishly picturing possible scenarios in torrid detail.

 

The hand on his rear is palming him now, kneading his flesh and Fenris’ voice is rumbling in approval. Anders squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself this is wrong, because Fenris isn’t in his right mind and this is against his will. There is no way Fenris would be doing this if he had his full faculties.

 

“Please… Fenris… stop.”

 

Fenris stills suddenly and Anders’ eyes snap open in surprise. They are right outside Fenris’ door and the elf halts without thought, carefully lowering Anders to his feet but drawing Anders’ face to look at him.

 

Anders blinks at him in surprise as the elf looks at him curiously, eyes still blown wide but creased in confusion as he scents Anders gently. He hadn’t expected Fenris to hear him, certainly not through the flood of canine instincts Danarius had triggered in him, and yet his pleading had gotten through.

 

Maybe Fenris didn’t understand the words so much as the tone, understanding Anders was distressed and seeking to settle him? Anders was clutching at straws now, but straws were all he had.

 

“Fenris, please, you have to think- you’re more than this and you wouldn’t be doing this if you-!” Anders chokes as Fenris’ tongue flicks out to swipe at his mouth, a soft lick that he’s seen Mabari give their owners when they are sad, an expression of fondness and comfort and Maker this is not happening. He opens his mouth again and Fenris licks again, this time into his mouth- not a kiss, not quite. Far too feral for that. Anders turns his head and pushes Fenris back, “Stop that. Come on, I know some Tevene, um prohibere? Claudorum?” The licks get more persistent, this time at his neck and Anders can’t help how he gasps when there is a drag of teeth and he isn’t resisting nearly as much as he should. “C-conculco…?”

 

Fenris stills, whining into his neck like Anders has done the worst thing in the world. His hands fall limp to his sides and he steps back, kneeling on the Hightown cobbles as Anders gapes in horror.

 

“Maker, no! Forget that! I didn’t mean it, stop, please!” He grabs Fenris’ shoulders and pulls at him until the elf stands with a confused frown. He grows bolder at being relieved of the command, stepping into Anders’ space again and this time he is nipping a lot firmer at Anders’ neck. “Oh, fuck… why on Thedas did you pick me?!”

 

Fenris’ chest rumbles and his arms envelop Anders, crushing the mage to his chest as he bites and Anders cries out, startling a few late night nobles as they hurry away from the display outside the infamous haunted mansion. If that is his answer, it seems clear enough that whatever the reason Fenris has no plans to change it. Anders does not even notice he’s being carried back into the mansion until the door is closed and his back pushed against it. Fenris has a very distracting mouth and when Anders weakly turns into it to kiss back, Fenris rumbles and groans into him like Anders has made the right choice.

  
Anders isn’t sure he has, not when he knows Fenris is going to eviscerate him when he snaps out of this,“Fen-aahhhh!” Anders trails off into a whine as a hot swipe of tongue down his neck followed by a drag of teeth has him arching into Fenris’ hold. Maker damn the elf and his mouth because Anders’ not pushing at Fenris how he should be, instead curling his fingers into Fenris back and urging him closer.

 

“Fen- oh… you… sto-aahhh!” Fenris bites down and Anders keens hard.

 

His back thuds back against the door in submission, rattling the wood in the frame, as Fenris palms his cock without preamble. The nip of his clawed gauntlets against his thighs is the wrong side of dangerous but his bare palm is hot and rubs him without gentleness or even a pretense of shyness. He’s watching Anders with that gratingly familiar smirk curling his mouth, so damn smug and it makes Anders moan.

 

But… it isn’t right.

 

There is none of the condescending derision that normally goes with it, the piercing intellect and shrewd wit, the disdained haughtiness that makes Anders grind his teeth. He is all dangerous predator and none of the elf that makes Anders want to shake him until he sees stars.

 

This isn’t Fenris.

 

His cock stirs defiantly in his trousers, oblivious to his discomfort as Anders shakes his head. Fenris would never want this with him, would never touch him but to lash out if he pushed too far, would never… Fenris rumbles a contented purr and Anders rocks into his hold.

 

He grips Fenris’ forearms and watches a green hue skitter over his skin as the ground flares, paralysis taking hold so Anders can escape from his grasp further into the foyer. The frozen elf is blocking the only exit from here and Anders knows Fenris well enough to know the glyph gives him only a handful of seconds.

 

When Anders had first met Fenris he had theorised, privately, that the lyrium made Fenris a magical power source but would ultimately mean he was sensitive to magic. At best, it itched him. He liked it about as much as he liked any form of contact and Anders reassessed.

 

It made sense. Fenris was forged in Tevinter and what use would Danarius have for a bodyguard that could be swayed by magic? Instead it seemed that whenever they faced enemies who wielded magic it did nothing but annoy Fenris. He was so magic resistant it was alarming and Anders has barely thrown up a static cage before Fenris is tearing himself free from the glyph’s hold.

 

“Fenris! Listen to me, just listen! Can you even understand me?!” Anders steps back even though there is nowhere he can go to with his exit blocked. Fenris snarls, practically shivering with anger as he bares his teeth at Anders through the crackling lightning bars, pacing like… like a caged wolf.

 

“Your master is dead, you killed him! But he did something to you… Maker, Fenris, come on, you have to help me out here!” Anders isn’t sure shouting at Fenris is going to aid in solving the issue because it seems that the elf might be beyond reason at the moment. Where are Hawke and Isabela? Anders prays they’ve found something of use in Danarius’ things.

 

Fenris, for his part, draws up to full height with his face tilted down and shoulders squared. He is flicking his gaze from Anders to the magic caging him in and looks to be assessing each pulse of magic. Anders knows he is a powerful mage but he’s never exactly gone toe-to-toe with Fenris beyond verbal fighting. He isn’t sure he likes his odds. Not when Fenris starts glowing.

 

And he’s still hard.

 

_Justice…_

 

**I have no wisdom here.**

 

It figures that the fade spirit is as focused as a child on a sugar high with all that lyrium singing away over there.

 

“Fenris, please.” Anders tries distracting him now. “You have to understand this isn’t you, I am trying to do what is best here, you don’t even like me, you-” Anders flinches and steps back as Fenris’ fist collides with the cage.

 

Lightning spits and bites into his hand, the gauntlet metal scorching black and Fenris barks in pain and rage but is unrelenting. His arm shudders with the force he is using to try and tear his way through the barrier but he doesn’t look to be dissuaded by a little lightning.

 

Anders is going to die.

 

He turned down a fuck from an undeniably gorgeous elf - who hates him and is in no way able to make such decisions - and now he is going to die.

 

“Stop that! You’re hurting yourself!” Anders hurries forward, flinching again as sparks fly from Fenris hand through the cage wall. Without thinking Anders drops the cage, hands clasping Fenris hand and burning his hand on contact. “Ow!” He jerks back his hands, healing magic flooding through as he tips Fenris’ palm up carefully.

 

Fenris, in contrast from his previous raging, freezes in response. He seems transfixed by the gentler magic Anders is soothing over him and watching his burns heal before studying Anders’ face intently.

“There.” Anders takes a slow breath. “Maker, you know how to make things dramatic.” Fenris takes his hand back only to grip Anders wrists and tip them up instead, pointing a meaningful finger at the burns on the healer’s hands as if to remind him.

 

“Oh, um… right.” Anders’ magic thrums again, the pain and injuries disappearing to a dull ache. He looks up at Fenris curiously, not sure where to go when the elf has been determinedly amorous, then destructive and now calm.

 

Fenris presses his forehead to Anders, the height difference almost funny but for how Fenris hauls him down to meet him. Anders swallows in wide-eyed alarm and then the nuzzling starts. And the accursed tongue is back. Anders squirms back, face turning red at the attention and ready to scold Fenris for his actions when the door opens suddenly.

 

Right into Fenris.

 

There’s a shuddering thud that has Anders wincing in empathy and then Fenris is slumping over unconscious. Anders tries to catch him but the elf and all his armour makes for a heavy weight that takes Anders with it instead, pillowing Fenris’ fall with his own body.

 

Hawke’s head peers in through the cracked door. “Uh… whoops?”

 

Anders groans pitifully. “I’m petitioning Varric to make that the title of your book.”

 

Fenris makes no response but he’s still breathing because Anders can feel every shift of his breastplate against his wilting erection.

 

“Hawke. Get him off me.”

 

Blessedly, Hawke obeys and they manage to wrangle Fenris into his bed with little incident - aside from a pointed look to the bite mark on Anders’ neck.

 

Anders is almost terrified to wait for Fenris to wake but he’s a healer and Hawke did hit him hard, so medical professionalism wins out. Hawke confesses they found nothing in Danarius’ things so they will have to work out what they can if Fenris wakes up just as singularly wolfish as he was before. Hawke leaves, mumbling ideas about visiting Xenon, and leaves Anders to fuss about the room as much as he dares- very pointedly not thinking about how Fenris had felt against him, how each lick and bite and touch had been so… _not thinking about it_.

 

When Fenris wakes it is… normal. Anticlimactically, somehow, though Anders refuses to wonder why.

 

**He hates you and your cause.**

 

_I know._

 

Fenris groans and complains and is generally his usual acidic self. He has nothing but disgust for Anders, barking at him to leave and snapping when Anders even hints at examining him.

 

Anders should feel relieved but it is bitter on his tongue, twisted into a joke about ‘cognitive recalibration’ and that Fenris should make sure he thanks Hawke for making sure he didn’t make a huge mistake before Anders leaves, one hand pressed to the bite on his neck and stomach heavy with a hurt he shouldn’t feel. Everything’s back to normal then.

 

**Focus, Anders.**

 

_Fuck off, Justice._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makeshift tevene words: stop, halt, heel.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hawke, stop fussing.” Fenris grunts, shrugging the mage off him with a scowl. 

 

Hawke obediently draws back but offers a wide-eyed pout. “Fenris, I’m worried! What happened to you?” 

 

He steps closer despite the elf’s warning look. “What did Danarius do?”

 

Fenris stalks away from Hawke, standing at the window of the room he’s been sulking in for a week now. Blessedly, Hawke holds his tongue while Fenris stews over his thoughts. He must truly be concerned if he’s trying patience in an effort to reach Fenris through his self-imposed isolation. A week of ignoring every persistent visitor to his door and Fenris finds Hawke clambering noisily up the broken trellis like he isn’t a hulking beast of a man not exactly given to stealth.

 

“Do you remember what I told you of the Fog Warriors?” Fenris speaks slowly, as if navigating his way through his own thoughts. It isn’t too far from the truth. Danarius is dead and yet Fenris feels no comfort from it, his mind has been a confused place since he woke on his bed with the abomination hovering over him and a rumbling purr of contentment ready to burst free. He cannot reconcile one thought with another and does not trust himself. So he hides, licking wounds and nursing humiliated pride.

 

Hawke nods slowly but Fenris’ back remains turned to him so he says, “Yes.” With no small amount of trepidation.

 

“Danarius ordered, and I obeyed. Without thought.” Fenris lifts his hand, tipping the palm up to study the lines of shimmering lyrium in his skin. “No logic, no reason. Instinct. My master commanded and I followed.” He clenches his hand. Like a dog.”

 

Hawke’s brain ticks the information over before echoing, “Like a wolf.”

 

Fenris looks over his shoulder, an unamused nod of agreement. “Like a wolf.”

 

“So… Danarius has a- had a- trigger command for it?”

 

“Yes. Tevene, of course.”

 

“Of course.” Hawke replies drily, rolling his eyes in distaste at the whole situation. “So… can we rid you of it?”

 

Fenris inclines his head. “I do not believe so, no. The command is no different to those that you give your mabari, but it is- was- only from Danarius that I would listen. I don’t know the full details of what Danarius did to me but I believe it is not like a curse- not linked to werewolves- but more akin to shapeshifting.”

 

Hawke wrinkles his nose. “Aren’t they similar?”

 

Fenris’ mouth quirks. Powerful though Hawke may be, he took after his father and had no formal training even within a circle. He knew very little of magical theory beyond primal and force magic- and even that was informal at best. Hawke’s talents consisted of ‘make it blow up’ and it was a strange turn of events that Fenris had more knowledge on magical theory than Hawke did. 

 

“No.” He put simply. 

 

“Oh.”

 

“I believe Danarius separated the instinct of the wolf within me so that he could choose when to have the slave and when to have the pet. Not that either were much different but in Tevinter, Danarius rarely needed to command one over the other. I was in harmony with that instinct.” Fenris frowns in thought of his prior willing obedience.

 

Hawke squeezes his shoulder gently. “It took more than anything to break that instinct and be free, then. You’re even stronger than you thought.”

 

Fenris scoffs but he meets Hawke’s gaze with a soft look of gratitude. “Perhaps. But I am… unable to control it.”

 

“Hm, doesn’t sound like you want to control it so much as destroy it. You sound like you hate it as much as you hate your markings.”

 

“It is abhorrent. I want to rid myself of it.”

 

“Maybe you can’t rid yourself of it any more than you can your markings.”

 

Fenris growls in distaste before taking a breath and Hawke watches him carefully, noticing for the first time that Fenris’ habit of grunting or growling and pacing were not born of a barely contained temper but a barely contained animal. An instinct and urge that he was constantly wrestling with to temper down. Fenris had not stopped fighting since he ran away and now his control was weakening. Danarius’ death had not freed him and nothing might ever.

 

“I am… afraid.” Fenris says, voice so timid and small it makes Hawke ache for his friend. “If you had not done as you did…”

 

Hawke grins. “Hit you on the head so hard it knocked you out?”

 

Fenris smiles slowly in return. “Yes, that.”

 

“You’re welcome. So… while we’re talking about that… wanna tell me what happened?” Fenris gave him a blank look as Hawke continues. “When you went all wolf-y? You through Anders over your shoulder and carted him off- and by the looks of him when you found him you’d bitten him!”

 

Fenris flushes scarlet and turns away from Hawke with a disgusted noise as he waves his hand. “It is nothing! I did not do anything.”

 

“You. Bit. Him.” Hawke blinks. “And now you’re growling at me!”

 

Fenris  flinches. “I thought I had control but now, I… I have no master and yet I am not free.” He curls his shoulders into himself and Hawke respectfully does not touch even as he wishes he could soothe that hurt. “This freedom… it tastes like ashes.”

 

Hawke relents his interrogating and sighs. “We’ll… figure it out, okay?” Fenris does not answer and Hawke sighs again before he says firmer, “We will.”

 

Fenris nods but he does not seem to have much faith, the wolf pacing furiously within his mind as he fights down every useless instinct.  _ Mate _ , it growls and urges him to go and find and- 

 

Fenris squeezes his eyes shut. 

  
Whatever abhorrent beast Danarius crafted him into has surely been driven mad if it thinks for even one second that Anders is his mate.


	3. Chapter 3

Anders wants the world to top right back to the way it was, pretty please oh wise and gently Maker, he promises he won’t swear for at least a week.

 

“The mage is muttering to himself, he may have given into his demon.” Fenris snarks unpleasantly.

 

Two weeks, no swearing or cursing or fireballing templars. Warden’s honour.

 

“Leave him alone, Fenris.” Hawke sighs wearily, pace quickening a tad to put some distance between him and the bickering he is well acquainted will follow their initial barbs.

 

Three weeks, and no masturbating. Please, please, please, Maker.

 

The worst of it is not the snarking or the acidic tone- oh no, that is the welcome familiar of the situation- the worst of it is the… attention. The elf is always staring. Watching. Waiting. 

He wrinkles his nose like Anders is nothing but filth- and maybe he doesn’t smell fresh but they can’t all live in stolen mansions- any time Anders draws near, but cannot be more than five paces from Anders whenever they are forced together by Hawke. More than a few times he’s felt examined within his own clinic, and turned to find no one there but a few tight-lipped, wary patients.

 

“Somebody pinch me, I think Blondie is praying…” Varric chuckles, nudging Anders who miserably gives him an unamused look.

 

“Only the Maker can make this right, I can’t take Fenris being so adoring anymore- what will my suitors say?” He clutches his chest in mock despair as Varric laughs again but it is covered by the growl Fenris makes, standing stock-still on the winding path through the Wounded Coast.

 

“Suitors?!” Fenris demands, an edge of outrage to his voice that Anders almost remembers from the weird wolfy time that everyone just pretends never happened. Only a month ago and one conversation with Hawke has everyone respecting Fenris’ privacy like he’s some Revered Mother. Not that Anders wants to examine it any more than Fenris seems to, but still… Isabela hasn’t cracked more than five jokes and those were weeks ago!

 

Anders scoffs, stopping to match Fenris’ stance as Varric waves their antics off and heads after Hawke. “What? Just because you can’t stand the sight of me doesn’t meant other people agree with you. I’ll have you know I’m pretty.”

 

As Anders leans forward, arms crossed and face set in a teasing sneer, Fenris reels back like he’s been slapped. He gags and chokes, covering his mouth with his hand and staggering back a few steps as Anders’ eyes widen in alarm. 

 

“Fenris?”

 

“Stay away from me!” Fenris roars, muffled and soft behind the palm of his hand. He almost sounds afraid.

 

Anders gives him an offended look, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He mentally guesses his deal is off with the Maker, not that the Maker ever seems to want to do deals with Anders. 

 

“I know for a fact I don’t smell bad or are you just being dramatic? Does my being a mage just make you sick now?!” It’s on the tip of his tongue to point out that during Fenris’ little animalistic breakdown the elf had had no problems with his scent whatsoever but Anders isn’t sure he ever wants to open that particular minefield. 

 

Fenris growls at him but turns to hurry away- fleeing with as much composure as he can with his face covered like he’d smelled a Broodmother’s armpit. Anders was seething as he stalked after him, voice higher in outrage at being so insulted when an arrow flies into his shoulder and jerks him to stop with a cry of pain. 

 

“Little help!” Hawke grunts, tossing a stonefist to slam into one assailant as he artfully dodges another and Varric manages to slam a crossbow bolt between the eyes of the archer who had shot at Anders. 

 

Bandits. Of course.

 

What trip to the Wounded Coast would be complete without a side of bandits?

 

“Any time you’re ready Fenris!” Varric shouts.

 

Anders shudders as Fenris hauls him close, wide-eyed and… snarling. Livid. He looks… feral.

 

“Fenris?” He winces as his shoulder pulls, barely catching Hawke’s misstep over Fenris’ shoulder to throw out a barrier and deflect the sword, pulling his shoulder and hunching over with a cry.

 

Fenris goes wild.

 

In a flash of blinding white lyrium that leaves Anders reeling, the elf is moving. Zipping through the battle with his sword arcing, carving down the men that would murder and rob them.

 

They do not stand a chance.

 

They scream and the plead and Fenris does not hear them, Hawke and Varric stilling to watch somewhere between horror and awe, Fenris felling them to the last man whom he stands before and grins. Rows of teeth as inviting as a wolf’s maw. Then his hand is in the man’s chest with enough of a pause for the man to gurgle out a strangled scream before Fenris pulls his arm back with a wrenching implosion of flesh and gore. 

 

The heart beats once in Fenris’ hand before stilling and Fenris lets it drop to the sand with a wet squelch, the man’s body falling after it. Still and silent.

 

“Fenris?” Hawke says tentatively.

 

Fenris whirls around, teeth bared, hands raised. All he sees is his mate; in pain and on his knees, two men between him and his mate and the rage is too much- protect, protect, protect.

 

“Fenris!” Anders is between him and Hawke, arms raised and shaking from the strain. His head is turned and braced for impact, Fenris blinking at the mage and Hawke’s wide-eyed shock behind him. He looks to his own hands, raised and slathered in viscera, and the idea of what he might have done shakes him to his core.

 

“No…” He croaks, clarity and logic and reason flooding back with a rush and chasing away the imagined threat he had seen in Hawke and Varric. They were his friends!

 

But then… so had the Fog Warriors been.

 

No matter how many chains he breaks he can never be free. 

 

He is still a monster.

  
He does not hear them when they call after him, nothing but pain and grief as he turns and runs. The sand scores at his feet but the pain is welcome, the throb of his heart in his throat and the fear of what beast Danarius made him that he can never undo- it pushes him until he cannot do anything but run and hope he can outrun himself.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hawke, I do not want to talk, there is-” Fenris freezes in his tirade as he spies Anders in the doorway to the only room of the mansion Fenris makes any use of.

 

The mage offers him a small, nervous smile. “Uh, sorry. Not Hawke.” 

 

Fenris scowls. “I can see that. Why are you here?” Fear grips him, tight around his throat like the leash he imagines is now fastening him to another mage. It would not be so bad were it not Anders. There were plenty of other potential options- even Hawke!- and yet whenever Fenris’ control slipped his feral nature brought him to Anders’ side like a well trained pup- like he supposes he is.

 

That isn’t even the worst of it. Beyond the superficial aesthetics that Fenris might be able to grudgingly admit weren’t all that unappealing, there seemed to be a totally irrational sense of safety around the mage. 

 

Anders was an abomination! Why the wolf instinct in him seemed to perceive Anders as a gentle, kind mate- a term that made Fenris seethe- was defying all rationale. It was all he could to to keep his guard up when his mind did the mental equivalent of wagging tail every time he saw the mage. 

 

Anders did not step into the room. “You’ve been avoiding, well… everyone.”

 

“So Hawke sends you to drag me out to face you all because he will not be the ‘bad guy’?”

“No, I think Hawke is trying to respect your privacy and let you handle this how you see fit.” Anders inclines his head. “But I am a healer, and I do not think you’re going to be able to fix this the way you want to. I know a little about having a strong will, not your own, to wrestle with.”

 

Fenris sneers, not at all pleased with the comparison. “How dare you compare your greedy choices with the madness Danarius carved into my mind…”

 

The mage looks offended but he still does not step towards Fenris, unwilling to even cross the threshold despite their conversing and it is scratching at Fernis like a persisting irritation- much like the mage himself. Anders takes a slow breath, swallowing down the now doubt inane response he wants to give. “Fine. I only meant that I don’t think you’re getting anywhere by trying to bury and ignore the split in yourself.”

 

“You want me to… you are vile.”

 

Anders blinks. “Wha- no! Not that!” He flushes a little and Fenris is glad of it because he knows he is as well. “What kind of monster do you think I am? Wait, don’t answer that.” He pinches his brow. “Look… I meant just try embracing the wolf stuff, at least a little. It might make it easier to handle other things. I’ve, uh… I’ve talked it over with Hawke and he won’t be taking us out together.” Fenris’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It will make this easier for you, I hope. You don’t have to worry about the evil abomination taking advantage.” Anders gestures to the space between them. “See? I know you don’t like it when I’m near you, so I just won’t be. Less arguing for the others as well.” He smiles brightly like he’s figured it all out and it catches Fenris off guard so sharply that he doesn’t know what to say. 

 

Every imagined scenario of Anders finally seizing control over him refuses to mesh with this, presented with such a jarring reality that Fenris is without the faculties to respond. 

 

“What about the Hanged Man?”

 

“I’ve got work at the clinic, I shouldn’t be wasting my time like that.” It is the first thing out of his mouth that does not sound like his own words, a tinge of perhaps his demon colouring his words.

 

“Mage…” He manages, halting in hesitant wariness.

 

Anders waves at him. “I know, I know, but please, all that adoring gratitude is going to give me a big head.”

 

Fenris scoffs. It is the closest thing to civil they have ever managed and it leaves them in an awkward silence until Anders coughs and shrugs weakly.

 

“Uh, good luck with… that, then.” He turns to leave, shouting back over his shoulder. “Remember, mages deserve to be free!”

 

“Get out, mage.” Fenris groans.

 

“I’m already leaving!” It almost sounds playful and Fenris supposes it might be with Anders knowing he does not have to spend any time with Fenris for… well, for a long time. 

 

When the front door shuts, Fenris steps to the doorway of his room and before he can stop himself he inhales.

  
Elfroot. Milk. Magic. Safety. Fenris wrinkles his nose as the scent tugs at him and doubtfully tries to follow the mage’s advice, letting out a soft whine as the feral nature within him bemoans the knowledge that the mage won’t be a problem any more. 


	5. Chapter 5

“We should have done this years ago!” Hawke declares, merrily collecting Anders’ money from his poor hand with far too much glee.

 

“This isn’t nearly as entertaining as when they are both here.” Isabela complains. “Where’s the angst? The sexual tension? I’m positively bored!”

 

Aveline rolls her eyes, “Maker forbid the pirate is bored.”

 

“Aw, I knew you cared, man-hands.”

 

Merrill coos, “It’s like Fenris is here when you two bicker. I miss them being together. They were almost starting to sound fond of each other before Danarius came.” 

 

An utterly unexplainable twinge pulled at Anders’ chest and it almost felt like he might agree, but that would mean he missed Fenris and that couldn’t be right. “Can we stop talking about Fenris, please?” Anders pushes away his truly awful hand of cards and takes a petulant sip from his water. He coughs into his hand before softly asking, “How is he, anyway?”

 

“I knew you missed him!” Varric grins, “Pay up, Hawke.”

 

“He’s a healer, Varric, professional integrity does not mean he genuinely cares!”

 

Anders’ head jerked up from where he was pillowing them on his folder arms at their arguing. “Hey! Of course I genuinely care- because I’m a healer!”

 

“Sure, sure; you miss him.” Varric insists, hand out and palm up at Hawke as the mage grumbles and drops two sovereigns into it. “Broody’s good, Blondie. Never fear. Even seems like he took your advice- he’s a lot more wolfy lately.”

 

“Oh?” Anders leans in with interest, curious about just what sort of nature it is that Fenris had been suppressing.

 

Isabela sniggers, “Yeah, Hawke said something mushy and Fenris licked him! Like a puppy!” She trails off into giggles that Merrill echoes as Hawke flushes and glares at them both.

 

“Oh…” There was that twinge again, but not wistful. It felt like jealousy but that was even more mad than the idea he missed the hateful elf. “That’s… good, right? It means he’s accepting himself a little more, right?” 

 

Varric shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine, probably better, let’s be honest. He seems a little less… well, still as feral but less wild wolf and more mabari.”

 

“I wouldn’t let Fenris hear you call him a mabari.” Aveline warns.

 

Anders tunes them out as he turns the news over in his mind, that Fenris is adjusting. He’s no longer trying to deny part of his nature and he seems to be settling. He might now have a few strange tendencies but nothing that their mismatched group seemed to be bothered about. 

 

The rota that organized which evenings Anders and Fenris alternated attending the Hanged Man seemed to be working too. Anders hadn’t had an argument about mage rights in weeks.

 

Fenris and he coexisted in the same spaces without ever seeing each other.

 

Justice murmurs in approval but Anders couldn’t help but feel it was not the Maker-sent gift it appeared. He had lost the challenge, lost the presence of someone who represented everything they risked if their bid for freedom did not work and Anders couldn’t help but miss the rationale that the elf brought to his ideas- even if they were framed in hateful comments. It kept him from being too idealistic. 

 

Anders’ fingers drift to his neck, where the faint ring of teeth Fenris had bitten into his neck lingered in a pale pink scar. Okay, so maybe… maybe he did miss the elf.

 

The rest of the night passes in friendly conversation- with Anders losing most of his coin and Hawke gently pressing it into his palm again when they all bid goodnight. Anders is unaccosted on his way back to his clinic and he is writing at his desk long into the night when, shortly before dawn, a knock comes at the clinic door.

 

Templars don’t tend to knock and the Darktown residents are respectful of the snuffed lantern so it must be an emergency. 

 

His body protests moving as his sleepless night has worn him to the bone, shuffling to the door and opening it with fumbling fingers. He’s ready to stand aside and let the no doubt gravely suffering patient be rushed in but when the door parts it’s frame he is faced with no grim faced refugees.

 

Instead, with a sheepishly ducked head, Fenris is standing at his door.

 

“Fenris?” He croaks.

 

Fenris makes a soft whuffing noise that sounds like an agitated sigh before eyeing the mage hopefully. Anders blinks in confusion before figuring the elf is not articulate at the moment. He hasn’t interacted with the wolfier side of Fenris since he was unceremoniously carted off the first time but he does know that it seems fond of Anders- much to Fenris’ aggravation.

 

“Are you okay? Do you need… anything?”

 

Fenris does not respond but when Anders bids him to enter he perks up happily, ears twitching as he nuzzles Anders’ face as he passes by. Anders firmly tells himself that it means about as much as when Hawke’s mabari does it- which isn’t much more than the dog being hopeful that Anders has food for him. Whatever control their friends had said Fenris was gaining seemed to apparently still be hit and miss if the wolf’s presence at Anders’ door was anything to go by.

 

When the door is latched again, Anders turns to find Fenris frowning at the desk Anders had been sat at. The candle has worn down to a pitiful stub, ink smudged on some of the pages as exhaustion made him clumsy. The desk itself is more worn than his own bed and Fenris turns to Anders with a stern look. Before Anders can speak, Fenris has crossed to him and gripped the scruff of his jacket collar like… like he’s an errant pup. He yelps in indignation as Fenris leads him into the back room- more of a cupboard than the bedroom it acts as- and deposits Anders onto the bed with a whump. As a final act of firm insistence, Fenris crawls into the creaking cot after Anders, settling on his chest like a paperweight to keep the mage in the bed.

 

The mage blinks at Fenris’ firm look before sighing in defeat, far too tired to be arguing with a dog’s logic. “You’re gonna be pissed when you regain control.”

 

Fenris huffs, almost a scoff, before jostling against him into a more comfortable position that doesn’t have pointy armor digging into either of them as the practicalities of disrobing seem lost on the wolf’s mind. 

 

“If I die tomorrow because you wanted to cuddle, I am going to be annoyed.” Anders adds for good measure.

 

Fenris slings a still clawed palm over his chattering mouth, ignoring the indignant look with an unrepentant smile as he settles to sleep- palm still covering Anders’ mouth.

 

“I’m a cat person.” Anders mumbles, lost to the press of Fenris’ warm skin and wholly ignored.

 

Anders promises to address this much more firmly in the morning, when he isn’t so tired. 

  
Justice is utterly perplexed at the entire thing but does not mind the proximity of that amount of lyrium as Anders drifts off to sleep- Fenris’ reaction a problem for tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

Fenris is gone before the sun rises, Anders not even stirring he’s so dead to the world with exhaustion. Fenris is almost to the door when the soft whimpers of a nightmare tug him into looking back, Anders’ face screwed up in distress that had been missing when Fenris had been sprawled across his chest.

 

Fenris slams the door as hard as he can when he leaves, certain the door frame is going to need replacing as he does not flee but hurries with extra determination to return to Hightown. 

 

Not fleeing.

 

Anders’ advice had, when he had grudgingly followed it, been for the most part helpful. He felt less like he was wrestling control of his own body and more in harmony with his own nature, and the others had been accepting of him so it felt more like having a family than it ever had before. They knew everything and they didn’t care, they did not find him any stranger than they themselves were and it was almost normal. What passed for normal for them anyway.

 

It didn’t feel quite right, with the single empty chair at Wicked Grace games, the second hand gossip about how Anders wasn’t sleeping or eating and never catching more than snatches of information about the man who ghosted through their shared spaces.

 

Of course Anders was still there; his lantern always lit when Fenris passed his clinic, and the ready supply of poultices and potions always finding their way to him. 

 

Distance had done nothing to sever his apparent… fixation. 

 

He couldn’t even blame Anders, though he very firmly would be, when Anders had made good on his promise and disappeared from Fenris’ life like… like he’d needed the excuse. To appear the martyr when anyone asked why he wouldn’t be near the elf any more. 

 

Not that Fenris missed him, Maker, no. 

 

Even if all evidence pointed to the contrary.

 

“Feeeeeeenriiiiiiiiiiis!” Hawke sing-songs from the foyer as Fenris face finally collides with the pillow on his bed. 

 

The sun has barely risen and already his solitude is already being invaded, nevermind that Hawke probably didn’t know he’d not been home or even alone all night. 

 

He whuffs into the pillow, splaying flat and refusing to raise his head as Hawke strides into his room. “There you are!” Fenris whuffs again but it trails off into a whine, he is not up for this. 

 

Half of him seems to have a reprehensible fixation with the abomination and he really, really doesn’t know how to fix that. 

 

“Aw come on, don’t be like that! I’ve got the perfect thing for you!”

 

“If it even remotely involves mages, I am going to hurt you.” Fenris snarls, the sting of it lost to the fact that he’s petulantly smushing his face into his pillow. 

 

“Perish the thought!” Hawke pointedly doesn’t remind him that anything that involves Hawke, who is a mage, will involve mages from the outset. “I thought we might go for a walk! Come on, Fen, you know you wanna!” Fenris perks up, his head jerking upright and ears twitching as Hawke smiles smugly at him. “I knew it. Say… that’s the same look Dog gives me when I say ‘walk’…”

 

Fenris stands from the bed. “If you compare me to your mabari one more time I am going to-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, but you still wanna go for a walk, don’t you?”

 

Fenris growls. “Don’t you dare tell the dwarf.”

 

“Wanna shake on it?”

 

Fenris punches him and for all his being a mage, it’s still like punching a wall. It doesn’t make him feel any better and all he gets for his trouble is Hawke patting his head and asking if he needs to see Anders. 

 

He most definitely does not ever want to see Anders.

 

But then, he hadn’t been planning in being skewered by a Tal-Vashoth blade either. He can’t really blame Anders for that either, but he’s going to. 

 

-

 

Anders had begun to think maybe things were going well for them all for once, then Hawke bursts into his clinic with Fenris in his arms like a fainting maiden and more blood splattered on them than is reasonable- and when Anders started quantifying blood splatter as a ‘reasonable’ amount probably coincides with the time he met Hawke.

 

It’s barely been a few weeks since Fenris’ wolf thing became apparent and already Anders had thought maybe things were calming down. How foolish of him. 

 

“Anders!” Hawke begs, a strangled cry of panic that has Anders slipping into his authoritative tone of the healer.

 

“Put him on a cot, Hawke.” Anders orders, tying off the bandage he had been fastening before Hawke and a very grim faced Isabela and shaking Merrill came into his clinic. Anders is at the bedside the moment he’s washed off his hands. “Step back, Hawke.” Hawke does so but it takes Merrill’s hand on his arm to keep him there.

 

Fenris isn’t conscious but he is alive. Barely. 

 

His pulse flutters like a trapped butterfly under Anders’ fingers as the mage lets out a huff of relief. “Always fighting.” Anders breathes, keeping his focus as he gathers magic to his hands. “Keep fighting.” He orders and then he pushes his healing magic into Fenris. 

 

Sword wound, Anders’ mind fills in as he examines the depth of Fenris’ injuries with his magic. Couldn’t have left it in to bring him back, severed three more arteries on exit, punctured lung. Miracle that he’s still breathing, but explains why it sounds wet. Clean through, extensive muscle damage… blood loss… Anders grits his teeth, feeling the lyrium in the elf’s skin push at him like it’s trying to claw free and leech into his magic. He’s glad Fenris isn’t awake because no doubt it would be painful but Anders does not have time for delicate, not when he can count the seconds between each of the elf’s breaths. 

 

Sealing the arteries is the first task, stemming the blood flow and joining muscles back together, knitting all the broken pieces like a jigsaw that’s been punched clean through. Some of the pieces aren’t there but Anders remembers what the whole puzzle should look like so fixing it isn’t too difficult.

 

Sweat is dripping off his brow when his mana flickers and the wound is still gaping but the blood has stopped flowing out of it. “Lyrium.” He croaks and Isabela wordlessly hands him a vial. He drains it and impatiently holds out his hand for another.

 

“Anders…” Hawke says softly.

 

“Shut up, Hawke.” Anders snaps. Isabela pops the cork off another and hands it to him with a nod of respect. He knows she would do worse things to keep them all safe, no matter what sort of air she puts on. 

 

The lyrium is cool as it pools in his belly, skin tingling with the force of its effects and Anders’ hands resume their poise over Fenris. Magic floods into the elf again and he picks up exactly where he left off. Setting the broken rib results in a sickening crack that makes Hawke flinch and start pacing frantically before busying himself with shooing the other patients out. Their sores and colds can wait another day and Hawke doesn’t want an audience to his rage if Fenris doesn’t make it. 

 

Anders tosses his head in frustration as the sweat stings his face, swiping angrily at his eyes and running agitated fingers through his hair. His hair tie snaps but he doesn’t notice, tossing the blonde hair from his eyes as he focuses.

 

Fenris gurgles and starts to choke as Anders heals his punctured lung, the blood already pooled there making him gag as he starts to spit it up. Anders tilts his head to the side and when the magic fades there is a pink, sore looking wound about a third of the size of the hole the sword had torn into him. He’d have a faint scar at worst because no doubt the elf would pick at it. 

 

Anders tips Fenris’ head up and lets out a relieved little laugh, “That’s it, yep, get it all out.” And doesn’t seem to mind as Fenris splutters blood over his hands before falling still again. 

 

“Is he...?” Hawke hazards.

 

“He is.” Anders takes up a cloth and wipes at Fenris’ mouth gently. “Though he’s going to be very sore for a while and no doubt unbearably grumpy.”

 

“So, back to normal, then?” Isabela grins but she looks as relieved as the rest of them as she knocks her hand against Anders’ face in a gentle little tap. “You did good, Sparklefingers.”

 

Anders smiles tiredly at her as Merrill fussily pats Fenris’ hair down into some semblance of order. 

 

“I’m going to buy you a thousand cats.” Hawke declares.

 

“I’d settle for one.” Anders hums. “Maybe three.”

 

“Done.”

 

“You had all better let him rest. I will keep an eye on him and no doubt he’ll be up and about by tomorrow no matter what I say.” 

 

Hawke hesitates. “You sure you’re okay with him? You know, in case he…” Hawke gnashes his teeth while his fingers mime claws. “He did bite you last time.” 

 

Anders blushes but shakes his head. “He’s not attacking anyone like this, I assure you.” Never mind that Anders can’t explain how much that bite wasn’t a bad thing. “Go on, you all stink like blood and sweat and it’s making me dizzy. Get out of my clinic.” 

 

“Love you too, Anders.” Hawke pouts.

 

Anders waves them off as they leave and all but slumps into his chair as the door shuts, Hawke assuring him he’ll snuff out the lantern. Anders is so wrung dry he feels like he could be poured into his bed, if he can even make it that far. He’s asleep before he knows it, eyes sliding shut and body awkwardly folded into his uneven chair as the candle sputters low on his desk.

 

He isn’t even aware he’s settled in for the night until Fenris groans on the cot and Anders wakes with a jolt, nightmares of darkspawn fingers around his throat disappearing as he focuses on his patient.

 

On shaky, tired feet he shuffles to Fenris’ bedside. “Hey, hey, easy.” He mumbles, words an effort when his head is still foggy with sleep and regretting sleeping in his chair as his back creaks. He kneels by the bed and gently touches Fenris’ shoulder. “You’re in the clinic, don’t pull your wound.”

 

“Y-your… hair…” Fenris croaks.

 

Anders tugs at his hair a moment, running his fingers through it. “Hm? Oh… the tie must have snapped.” He offers a tired smile. “Guess I look even more the apostate hobo, huh?”

 

Fenris does not answer but his hand is shakily twitching as it reaches for Anders’ hair. The mage stays curiously still as Fenris pushes weak fingers into his hair, petting him with fixed fascination. It’s soft, a little dry at the ends, but nice. It catches the light from the dying candle on the desk nicely as it spills over his hand and Fenris thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

 

He jerks when Anders’ hand pets his hair. “Fair’s fair.” The mage teases but Fenris lets it slide because it feels nice and it means he’s allowed to keep playing.

 

Anders’ hand follows the shaggy ends of his hair to his jaw, Fenris turning his head into it without thinking as his tongue darts out to lick at his fingers. 

 

The mage inhales sharply, hand stilling, as Fenris’ tongue does it again. Habitual little licks of his tongue across the pads of Anders’ fingers that are making Anders’ stomach do tense little flips in surprise. If he wasn’t awake before, he definitely is now. “F-Fenris…?”

 

Fenris makes a low pitiful whine, “I-I… I can’t help it… I was grateful you healed me and I…”

 

Anders shushes him softly, “It’s okay, see; I’m not mad or mocking you. Just checking you’re still you.” He makes no mention of how Fenris’ hand is still in his hair or how Anders’ fingers are toying with the ends of Fenris’ hair. “You know, you scarred me the last time. When you bit me.”

 

“I didn’t mean to.”

 

“I know.” Anders smiles again and Fenris huffs before settling. He’s asleep the moment his eyes close and Anders carefully untangles the hand from his hair before letting him sleep undisturbed, tugging the blanket up higher from where Merrill had neatly tucked him in. 

  
Anders is not surprised when he wakes to an empty clinic.


	7. Chapter 7

“Uhh… Fenris?” Anders speaks very slowly as he stirs the gently simmering pot over the campfire. “Getting a little close there.” 

 

Fenris tucks his knees under himself a little tighter, making a sound that was definitely a whine but Anders would be damned if he called the elf out on it. 

 

“I am aware.” He gritted out, his voice gravelly in that special way his voice tinges when his wolf nature is more present. Fenris had been getting better and better at controlling it, weeks passed now without anything unusual at all. 

 

This marked the end of the current stretch. 

 

Hawke squints across the little circle around the campfire they had arranged to bed down in for the night. “Are you… begging?” Fenris made that funny little whine again as the group stared at him. “Maker’s bollocks, you are!”

 

Merrill shushes Hawke, “Hawke, we talked about picking on Fenris when his animal instinct takes over.” She chides him, as stern as a mother might scold an infant for stealing sweets and about as ineffective.

“Dog gets the same look! Makes the same noise, too! Sidles up to me and nudges me like he’s starving. Only me though, never mother or Carver.”

 

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Are you…” Calling it ‘begging’ was wrong on so many levels and it seemed to be agitating Fenris further if the low level growling Anders could hear was anything to go by. “…asking for me to hurry up with dinner?”

 

Fenris rests his head on Anders’ outstretched arm as the mage stills, two green eyes staring up at him so baleful and desperate. He chuckles under his breath until he was outright laughing and Fenris’ pleading look only intensified. Hawke and Merrill were muffling their own laughter as Fenris bared his teeth. 

 

“Hey, come on, that was pretty funny. Alright, calm down, ser grumpy elf.” Fenris’ ears twitched, more like an agitated cat then any wolf Anders had ever seen. The mage snatches up a bowl and begins ladling it out until it was generously full, one eye on the elf who had gone rigidly still and then almost began to vibrate in place in… excitement? 

 

“Here you go…” Anders warily hands Fenris the bowl before Hawke and Merrill move in to get theirs. 

 

“You never do that when I’m cooking.” Hawke points out, a little huffily.

 

Fenris growls at him as Merrill adds, “Even Dog doesn’t beg when you’re cooking.” 

Anders chokes on his stew as Fenris claps him on the back and it was simply back to normal. Another assimilated part of how things were with no thought to how odd it might be to anyone else. No one made more than the odd comment when it kept happening and Anders simply slid Fenris whatever it was he was after. It was nice. After their chat in the clinic Anders had begun to wonder if Fenris might cut ties with him- or them all- for good.

 

Instead, as he watches Fenris finish the last of the stew- after Anders had been the one to refill his bowl with minimal puppy references- Anders wonders if maybe they might be getting along.

 

“I’m still not playing fetch with you.” Anders grins.

  
Fenris growls at him but he doesn’t shy away or storm off and Anders counts that as a rousing endorsement by Fenris’ standards. 


	8. Chapter 8

Hawke had been trying to get Anders and Fenris on more jobs together but aside from the odd necessity- even they had to agree facing a high dragon without a healer was unwise- they still seemed to be avoiding each other. When they were together they did manage an odd sort of civility, but born mostly from avoiding eye contact, conversation, contact… when it did happen, though, Hawke felt like he was reading one of his mother’s trashy romance books. The ones even Varric wouldn’t deign to write. 

 

“We are heading to the mage’s clinic.” Fenris draws to a halt much like Dog does when he realises Hawke is leading him to the bath. 

 

“Yes.” Hawke turns when Fenris stubbornly refuses to continue, despite Aveline prodding him. She doesn’t care for his growling but he does not intimidate her, something he has come to expect from their unusual group of friends. “Look, I feel better having him there as backup! You know I can’t heal for shit.”

 

Fenris protests. “We are only going to the Wounded Coast.” His stomach would not stop fluttering, memories of Anders’ soft smiles by firelight making him feel antsy. He does not want to see the mage.

 

“Yeah, well, you know the kind of shit luck we-”

 

“You, Hawke.” Aveline corrects. “The kind of shit luck you have.”

 

Hawke pouts and crosses his arms. “Fine. Yes, that. I have shit luck; hurray. Let’s just not tempt fate, okay? It’s been damn quiet on the coast lately and I don’t like it. I just know something is going to happen!” He turns on his heel and storms off, making for the lift to Darktown as Fenris glares after him.

 

“I will pick you up.” Aveline warns, making Fenris’ gaze snap to her.

 

“You would not dare.” Her eyebrow rises at the challenge and Fenris ducks his head and scurries after Hawke, cursing them both as he bounces on his feet agitatedly, feeling the lift rumble beneath his barefeet.

 

The clinic is not busy when they reach it but Anders is occupied with a patient, one shying away from his glowing fingers with agitation. “Not that! I don’t want you to use magic on me.”

 

Fenris knows that sentiment and watches as Anders obligingly muted his magic and holds his hands out placatingly. 

 

“Easy, friend, I won’t force my magic on you if you are afraid of it. You have nothing to fear from me.” Anders’ voice is calm, soothing even. His bedside manner is unfailingly accommodating and Fenris wonders that it’s calming tone served only to agitate him more. He did not want to be placated or lured in by it, he did not want to see Anders. His thoughts on the mage had become more… blurred, of late. He could not tell the difference between the wolf’s instincts and his own musings and that frightens him.

 

The man nods, but whatever tension is wound in his frame does not seem to be due to the magic he claims to fear as he remains wary and jumpy. Hardly remarkable, given the types of lowlifes that come to Anders with all sorts of injuries. No doubt he fears loan sharks or the Carta, nothing that Fenris cares about, but something bothers him about this scene. 

 

Hawke waves to Anders but they stay near the door, respectfully waiting as Anders addresses the man again.

 

“Can you describe what you are suffering with? Without my magic I will have to figure out what it might be.” Anders gives him a warm smile and the man fidgets for a moment.

 

“My… gut. And my back. Aches something awful. Twinges and pains, all inside. Hurts all the time, healer, Maker help me.” Fenris cocks his head, ignoring Hawke poking at Anders’ books and Aveline’s scolding to leave the books alone, as he watches the man. Fenris had been trained to aide Danarius in all manner of interactions with rivals. Spotting a lie was easy and this man was no deft hand at court, his tells were clear as day but then… Anders was appalling at Wicked Grace.

 

“Your gut? And your back?”

 

“Oh, yes! And my hands.” He holds them up as if Anders might see his pain. “Can barely move them some days, and how’s an honest man to get honest work if he cannot use his hands?”

 

Anders frowns at him, clearly no solution to the man’s ailments presenting itself as he draws a healing potion from his belt. “I… I am unsure what might be causing your problems. Are you sure you aren’t comfortable with my magic?”

 

The man’s eyes fasten on the shimmering red vial the moment Anders brings it into view and Fenris feels his lips curl in disgust. “No, no, serah, please. Magic terrifies me, but your kindness and generosity, yes, please.” His babbling ends as he reaches for the vial and Anders just holds it out with that meek little smile, likely hurting over yet another man cowed in fear of his magic but desperate to help anyway he can. His soft, gentle, foolish, giving mate.

 

Fenris’ mouth curls harder into a snarl and he stalks forward, gripping the man’s wrist in a tight clench, catching the vial as it falls from the man’s startled grasp. 

 

“Fenris! What are you doing?! Let my patient go!”

 

Fenris ignores Anders and leans into the man, inhaling deeply of his unwashed scent and even as the sour odour wrinkles his nose he has his answer. “This man is not sick.” He tightens his grasp and wonders if the man might learn from his mistakes if Fenris gives him a true injury to complain of. 

 

“W-what?” Hawke, who had darted after Fenris when the elf had lunged at the man, frowns down at the alleged patient. 

 

“He lies and plays on your foolish kindness to steal from you.” Fenris yanks the man up to stand, letting him dangle from his wrist as his toes scrape the floor. “Do you plan to sell the things you steal from this man? This mage who heals any who come to him and asks for nothing from you?!”

 

“Wait, how do you know he isn’t sick?” Aveline folds her arms, though Fenris could hear from her tone that she’s already on Fenris’ side. More fool the man that tried to steal from Anders with them in the room.

 

“I can smell it. He is overweight, his heart beats hard and flutters anxiously with each breath, harder when he lies, and he sweats with each question Anders gives- more so when he thought Anders would use magic and find out for himself.” Fenris watches the man’s face pale and he struggles frantically in Fenris’ immovable grasp. Fenris turns to Anders, who has been wide eyed and still since Fenris began speaking. “What would you have me do with him?” He could not be arrested for stealing from a place that technically did not exist, much as he could see Aveline wanted to use her authority.

 

Anders draws his disappointed gaze from the terrified man and looks at Fenris, “Do? Nothing.”

 

“Anders?!” Hawke squawks indignantly as Fenris growls in agreement.

 

“Don’t you growl at me!” Anders glares at Fenris before turning to Hawke. “No murdering petty thieves on my property!” 

 

He turns to Fenris once more. “Let him go.” Fenris growls again. “Fenris!” 

 

Fenris lets the man go, watching him tumble to his knees before scrambling out the door. 

 

Anders pushes past Fenris and throws out a hand, a bolt of lightning flying free to strike the man on his rear as Anders shouts from the door, “Don’t you fucking come back!” 

 

Slamming the door for emphasis he turns back to his friends who stare at him. 

 

“What?”

 

“Really? Lightning to the ass?” Hawke winces in sympathy before clapping Anders’ arm cheerily. “Isn’t it nice that we turned up so Fenris could terrify that man and you didn’t get stolen from?”

 

Anders scoffs at Hawke before turning to Fenris as the elf pushes the vial at him. He takes it gently and looks at it for a moment before trying to meet Fenris’ gaze, something Fenris is determinedly avoiding. “You… didn’t have to do that.”

 

Fenris grits his teeth and tries not to breathe. He is too close to Anders, those reassuring scents that still plague him and how calm the man had been when he had last been near Fenris- after that embarrassing begging incident- was confusing and frustrating. “You would have foolishly just given away all of your potions otherwise.”

 

Anders sighs, fingers closing around the vial as he nods to himself. “Yeah… stupid me for wanting to help.”

 

“He was not deserving of your help.” Fenris rumbles, stalking away to storm past Anders and leave the clinic when Anders grasps his arm.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Fenris sags at the words. Did he have to say them with such aching sincerity? It tugs at something in Fenris that he had firmly told himself was left over from his life guarding mages and had nothing at all to do with how he wanted to lean into Anders. “You are welcome.”

 

“Awww.” Hawke coos and Fenris hunches his posture as he growls at Hawke and Aveline clips the back of the mage’s head for interrupting. “What?! They’re adorable!”

 

Anders ignores them all, laughing to himself as he tucks the potion back into his belt pocket. Fenris was protective of them all, it had been proven time and time again, and yet Anders had never really thought on the fact that ‘everyone’ included him. For all their arguing, Fenris did still care. It was a little mind boggling but in a refreshingly nice way, unexpected, even. 

 

**This is a distraction.**

  
_ Fuck off, Justice. _


	9. Chapter 9

The first time it happens Fenris is half way into a bottle of wine as he and Hawke are reclining against one of his semi-serviceable benches, letting the fireplace warm their feet.

 

Fenris is pleasantly sore from a long day walking up Sundermount on an errand for Merrill that he was blissfully not involved with directly, instead spending most his time in companionable quiet with Aveline.

 

It had been… nice.

 

A drink with a friend had seemed the perfect way to round off the evening.

 

His belly is warm with wine and Hawke is a safe, assuring presence at his side that even his baser nature cannot rankle at. He doesn’t even notice he’s slipped to lie flat on the rug until Hawke chuckles but when Hawke turns to look at him, Fenris realises his back is arched. His body is angled to Hawke almost pleadingly, it’d be sexual if it were anything to do with conscious thought but it isn’t.

 

Fenris doesn’t want Hawke like that. Maybe he could explain this away if he did.

 

What Fenris wants is…

 

Hawke’s mouth parts, the twist of his lips caught between humour and horror but landing firmly in pure shock. Of course Hawke would recognise the motion, as bitter as the comparison tastes, Dog does it often enough for Hawke to be familiar. 

 

“Are you… are you asking for a-”

 

Fenris snarls as he struggles back to lean against the bench. “No. Of course not.”

 

It’s such a strange thing that for Fenris to know what he was refuting, he is admitting he knew exactly what Hawke meant and therefore that Hawke was in fact… correct. Hawke, drunk as he is, either does not pick up on that or still has wisdom enough to let it lie.

 

“Ah. Of course.”

 

“We will never speak of this again.” Fenris takes a deep, burning drag from his bottle.

 

Hawke looks at him askance. “Of what?”

 

“Of how I-… oh.” Fenris nods sharply, as though motion and movement were things he had read in a book. He is held so stiffly Hawke dares not move in case Fenris snaps in two.

 

They do not speak on it again as the rest of night passes in hazy wine soaked conversation until neither of them can string words together.

 

Fenris is not, by nature, a lucky man. The next time it happens he is not in his mansion with Hawke.

 

He is, in fact, in Anders’ clinic. He doesn’t know it as consciousness is slow to reach him and 

he feels warm, cocooned into thin blankets and the scent of ‘pack’ and 'family’ tugging at his nose. Hawke must be close, or not long left. Isabela and Sebastian, he had been with them and their scents linger about him as he turns away from the gentle voice calling him to wake.

'Mate’ his nose tells him. Elfroot and warmth; safety. His mind rebels at stirring but he struggles the blanket aside and arches his belly with a grumble. If he is to be woken, let it be earned.

 

The voice falls silent and Fenris drifts again, slipping back into the dark clutches of the Fade when he feels a warm palm on his belly. Not skin to skin, a roughspun shirt between his stomach at the warm heat of the hand upon him.

 

And it does not hurt.

 

Much as the instinct has him acting before thought, experience has him frowning at the unexpected event.

 

_ It always hurt _ , Fenris thought.

 

Magic hums around him, softer and muted to the tones of it he has known, but sharp like the air after a storm. His eyes part slowly, light stabbing at him as pain makes itself known in his leg.

 

Injured, he remembers. Qunari on the coast. Hawke carried me back. Then he must be in…

 

Anders’ hair frames his face, ringed in lantern light from every side as Fenris’ eyes struggle to focus. Gold, Fenris thinks, his hair looks like gold. Shimmered with red and flecked with grey, the scent of the mage swaddled tighter around him than any blanket Anders had seen fit to tie him with.

 

“Sorry…” Anders draws his hand back and Fenris murmurs a whuffing grunt at the loss. “I thought you might pull your wound.”

 

It is a lie. The man isn’t practiced enough to lie easily, more adept at avoidance than outright lying. There is a flush in his cheeks that Fenris takes to be embarrassment on his behalf and it spurs him into curling the blankets tight around himself.

 

“That never happened.” Fenris slurs. Somehow, Anders understands the mess of syllables.

 

“Healer’s promise.”

 

They, like Hawke, do not speak on it again.

 

There is no third time but when camping outside of Kirkwall, Fenris busies himself with setting up the tents while Hawke unpacks dinner and Anders starts a fire.

 

Merrill’s voice drifts from behind Fenris. “Who wants a belly rub?” She cooes, Fenris going ramrod straight as he slips and hits his thumb, whirling around as he swears in Tevene. He trusts Hawke not to tempt his ire so instead his wrath lands on Anders.

 

“You swore you would not tell!” He snarls.

 

The words tumble free before he can drag them back, seeing instead Merrill is not talking  to him but is instead leaning over a belly up, tail wagging, tongue lolling… Dog. Who is very annoyed Merrill has been distracted from scratching his belly and is instead staring at Fenris in stunned silence.

 

“I didn’t. But you just did. Congratulations.” Anders rolls his eyes and Fenris seethes.

 

As naive as Merrill is, she is not stupid. Fenris knows without asking she has put the knowledge of his wolf nature together with the seemingly odd outburst about belly rubs and she is desperately trying not to coo over him. She is failing.

 

“This never reaches Isabela. Or Varric.” Fenris snaps at her.

  
Merrill’s trust, while unbreakable, seems to bend a little when Isabela is involved. Fenris nearly leaps out of his chair when Isabela sidles up to him during Wicked Grace night and murmurs, “Can I 'rub’ your 'belly’?”


	10. Chapter 10

The underbrush rustles to his left and Fenris’ gaze snaps to it, assessing the height of the shrub and stilling instantly.

 

The gentle breeze ruffles his hair but it’s downwind, no scent to throw off whatever is lurking behind the weathered leaves as Fenris bends his knees- stance ready.

 

A soft paw presses to the dirt just out of the shelter of the thin branches and Fenris feels his lips peel back, a growl readied in his throat as the tension coils in his body. He is poised, just one breath of false ease until the creature will reveal itself and Fenris will strike.

 

A twitching nose pushes out of the leaves and Fenris sees his prey- a short haired rabbit, wild eyed and wary of danger but it does not see Fenris and it won’t until it is too late.

 

“Fenris?” Anders calls, a twig breaking underfoot as he approaches with all the grace of a druffalo through an Orlesian pottery shop.

 

The rabbit scrambles its feet in the dirt and with one leap is between Fenris and Anders on the winding path. Fenris drops his stance and is ready to pursue as the rabbit, in barely a pause, is bounding away like a blight was chasing it.

 

The growl slips free from his throat like a spill of water, a curling warning that seeps between his teeth and will mark the death of his prey, the last thing it will hear as life leaves them. His weight rocks to the balls of his feet and he is ready to move when suddenly Anders is in his space.

 

“Hey, hey. We brought lunch, we don’t need that rabbit.” Anders’ staff is in his left hand, both hands reaching to touch Fenris’ shoulders and so irritatingly unguarded. Fenris could rip him from navel to neck before Anders even cried out.

 

He’s fairly certain Anders knows that, the confusing idea that Anders trusts him enough not to consider him a threat is… uncomfortable.

 

Fenris takes a breath, the rabbit long gone now, and instead he focuses on Anders’ searching gaze. Warm, honey eyes looking at him for hurt he can heal, for something he can fix. Fenris hates he knows this now. He can see Anders’ bleeding heart reaching to heal and he wishes Anders was just the abomination to him once more. It is even more grating that Fenris had been ready to kill and the mage had stepped into his line of sight but still he stood, Fenris’ wrath soothed by this mage’s words.

 

“Fenris?”

 

Anders’ hands are still on his shoulders and even if he cannot feel the contact directly, it irritates Fenris that he isn’t vehemently pushing it away. So he forces himself to.

 

Brushing Anders’ hands off of him and pushing past him, he stalks ahead on the path.

 

Let Anders think it embarrassment for his feral slip, let him chalk it up to Fenris’ ungrateful nature and have them both forget this moment. Anders cannot know the significance of pacifying him so easily, and Fenris is more than happy to forget it entirely.

 

He’s chased rabbits before, lyrium ghosting trails marking his way, and nothing had come of it but some teasing as they all shared in his meal. Anders, however, had tentatively asked the last time if he wanted to chase prey like that.

 

Fenris had told him no.

 

And the mage has stopped it from happening again.

 

Fenris walks faster to catch up to the others. Let all of it get forgotten, for the ideas worming in his mind like woodlice are not to be encouraged.  _ No. Stop it. _

 

-

 

The practical solution after the confusing and uncomfortable realisation that he is at all at ease with Anders is solved in the only way Fenris knows how; dogged avoidance.

 

It isn’t like they’d formally agreed to be around each other again anyway, even if how Fenris had carted Anders off like an Avaar wild man was thankfully slipping into distant memory. The understanding his friends had shown him about his… condition, was… warming. He feels at home.

 

Pack, his mind supplies and he firmly squashes it.

 

Hawke is chattering away excitedly, brandishing his potato peeler like a sword to animate his tale that Fenris isn’t listening to. Orana is though, her wide eyed acceptance that her employer will not be deterred from helping with chores softened somewhat by the stories Hawke tells her. It feels just like a gathering of friends but the setting of work helps Orana engage more comfortably and Fenris has to wonder at Hawke’s care.

 

Brash and blunt as the man can be, which for an apostate isn’t a good combination, he never fails to make all of his friends feel comfortable. Orana isn’t even peeling anymore. She still has a potato in her hand and the peeler in another, but her arms are resting on her lap as she raptly listens to Hawke explain how he stumbled into a nest of dragonlings last week.His hand flings wide as the beast of a man details the mother dragon’s wingspan and so excited is he that the potato flies from his fingers.

 

Fenris’ disinterested air vanishes and, relaxed as he was watching Hawke and Orana talk, he is rigid and then… moving.

 

The potato bounces when it hits the floor once. It does not land again, Fenris dipping to one knee as his nimble feet carry him to it and he catches it in one hand.

 

Orana and Hawke are not talking now.

 

Fenris glares at the offending vegetable as he stomps over to Hawke and slaps it into the mage’s stunned, open hand.

 

Slowly, Hawke’s slack mouth begins to twist up. Glee bleeds into his eyes and Fenris feels a sinking sensation as Hawke’s delight grows.

 

“Hawke, no.” He growls.

 

That should be the end of that. Hawke likes making people comfortable and that should include this, right?

 

Except he isn’t hurt and he isn’t upset and Hawke is nothing if not an insufferable tease. It should not surprise Fenris that it isn’t at all ‘the end of that’.

 

Later that day, an apple sings past Fenris and wide into the foyer but it does not land- Fenris’ unhappily clutching the fruit and glaring back into the parlour at Hawke’s unrepentant grin.

 

“I slipped.” Hawke says.

 

“Nugshit.”

 

Hawke clutches his chest, “You wound me, serah!”

 

Fenris storms over to Hawke and presses the apple into his hand, both of his own clamping tightly around Hawke’s unmagelike spade of a hand. “Do not do that again.” He threatens.

 

Hawke doesn’t, for three days. It isn’t until they’re setting up a camp on Sundermount that it crops up again.

 

“Fenris!” Hawke calls, throwing a tightly balled bundle at him. No, not at him… very much not at him.

 

It arcs wide, high in the air, and Fenris isn’t aware he’s running and leaping to catch it until the blanket is already caught in his grasp. He lands on his feet and spins around to Hawke, already stalking back to the chuckling mage as he brandishes the blanket.

 

“Wait, it’s your blanket.” Hawke says, puzzled as Fenris drops it into his lap.

 

“I am aware.” Fenris grits out.

 

Hawke lifts the blanket. “Ahh, this one of those things you can’t help then?”

 

“So it would seem.” Scowling petulantly as Hawke this time hands him his blanket.

 

Varric is laughing so hard he is wiping tears from his eyes as Aveline muffles her own amusement into her hand, Fenris glaring hotly at them both before sitting with his arms folded and the blanket disgustedly dropped to his side. He ignores their teasing and they soon let it lie enough to finish their task.

 

Back at The Hanged Man, however, is a different story.

 

They drop their packs in one corner of Varric’s rooms, eagerly settling into some celebratory drinks that Aveline bows out of after three and Hawke remembers the game.

 

The first is a thrown potion and is caught easily, Hawke’s aim more than a little impaired, but Fenris fights with himself not to give it back before finally shoving it at Hawke.

 

“Hawke.” Fenris growls warningly.

 

Hawke gleefully grabs a bread roll from Varric’s abandoned meal, the dwarf watching with the same entertainment, as Hawke throws harder this time.

 

The roll goes straight over their heads and lands amongst their packs. It barely settles before Fenris is pulled out  of his seat and scrambling amongst their bags, swearing loudly in Arcanum as Hawke and Varric dissolve into giggles.

 

Fenris is going to put rashvine in Hawke’s boots, he is fairly certain the blood mage has some powdered that Hawke won’t detect until it is too late. Then he’s going to put tar in his fancy scented bath things, and convince Anders to give him an ice salve that he can dip Hawke’s small clothes into.

 

Petty revenge is the best sort of revenge, alongside perhaps crushing Danarius windpipe again.

 

Fenris pulls open the already loose tie on Hawke’s pack, ears burning at Hawke and Varric’s laughter, and then his own face splits with a grin when he sees what the bread roll has landed on.

 

He snatches it up, bread roll as well, and strides up to Hawke.

 

A flash of pink lace has Hawke falling silent, then paling so fast Fenris is almost concerned the mage will faint. Fenris throws the bread roll into Hawke’s lap and then holds up his prize, stretching the elastic between both forefingers as his grin bares every tooth.

 

“And what, Hawke, is this I found in your pack?”

 

“I-I-I…” Hawke chokes.

 

Fenris continues as he turns the large, outrageously lacy garment from side to side. Varric looks like he might combust he is laughing so hard. “Because these look very much your size. But I wonder if you took these up Sundermount with you then this is not as remarkable an occurrence as it seems to be. In fact, I suppose you might be wearing some right now.” Fenris slams the panties down and leers over the table. “What do you say, dwarf?”

 

Varric wipes his eye, “Oh, I think you are very right, elf.”

 

Hawke babbles and chokes, paling every second as he slips from his seat and yelps as he hits the floor. Fenris dangles the offending garment from one finger as he watches Hawke’s display with unhidden amusement.

 

“So,” Fenris cuts off the incoherent whining. “No more fetch.” He holds out the underwear to Hawke.

 

Hawke gulps and nods emphatically. “No more fetch.” He agrees, red faced and sweating as he snatches the underwear back.


	11. Chapter 11

Fenris crinkles his nose disdainfully, eyes narrowing at Anders across the table as the mage laughs at something Merrill says. Her cheeks flush and she stammers as Anders and Isabela chuckle good naturedly at her no doubt naive question about something presumably filthy. Fenris is hardly a chaste Chantry sister but listening to Anders and Isabela exchange stories is always… educational.

 

“Hey,” Varric nudges Fenris. “I know you and Blondie aren’t best buddies but come on, he’s not summoning demons or doing the mage rights rhetoric right now- less scowling.” 

 

They are having a rare night where all of them are gathered and Varric isn’t keen to have it all turn sour just because Fenris wants to argue when Anders is being remarkably non-Justicey.

 

Fenris turns his glare to Varric instead. “He has no need to summon more demons, the one he has is sufficient.”

 

Varric inclines his head at that point, not concerned with arguing the details like Anders might have been. “True, but he’s not being particularly mage-y or preachy tonight and you still look like you wanna gouge out his eyes.”

 

Fenris balks, “I do not want to gouge out his eyes!”

 

“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.” Varric smiles widely at him. “From you? About Anders? That’s as good as I can hope for.” The dwarf sighs like a put upon mother and Fenris resists tipping him unceremoniously from his chair. Barely.

 

“Cease your prattle, dwarf.”

 

“Ah, so it isn’t an Anders thing, then? You’ve just got your especially prickly pants on today.” Varric nods sagely before drinking from his tankard.

 

Merrill turns to their end of the table with a worried look. “You’re wearing prickly pants? Fenris, why would you do that? No wonder you’re so grumpy!” She taps her chin thoughtfully as she mumbles about getting him some more comfortable trousers.

 

Anders chuckles softly but largely doesn’t add to the conversation, sipping his watered cider and giving Fenris an oddly gentle look that only rankles Fenris more. 

 

Gentleness from the mage was unwelcome and still whatever illusion or pretence Fenris expected would not shatter. Still, the mage would respect his wolf nature and sympathise with it afflicting his mind; had been the first to help, even.

 

No, Anders and his trap of kindness had to stop.

 

Fenris could smell him from across the table: elfroot, milk, sweat, Darktown sewage, that crisp bite of a storm that didn’t fit the mage’s favoured fireballs. Warmth, that did fit. How did he smell warm?! Like the low embers of a burned down campfire. How did Fenris smell that man- that mage- and scent comfort and safety?

 

“You reek.” Fenris let slip unbidden. It clangs through the conversation as Anders mug stills part way to his mouth and an eyebrow raises at him.

 

Isabela splutters as Anders blinks and offers, “That was rude.”

 

Merrill leans in and inhales, her nose twitching as she tilts her head to inhale past Anders’ collar, not noticing Fenris’ gauntlets gouge into the table. “He doesn’t smell that bad, Fenris.” She disagrees gently.

 

Isabela, far smarter than Fenris wishes she were, does notice his slip and her eyes are on his clenched hands as she smirks. Before Fenris can blink she’s pushed her way into Anders’ side, his arm catching around her as she pulls aside his jacket and presses her nose to the mage’s neck- baring the silvery ring of teeth marks as she scents  _ directly over them _ . Anders shivers at the contact and Fenris can feel his teeth grinding as his jaw clenches.

 

The pirate inhales and exhales, a moan that barely passes for contemplation as she looks at Fenris without removing herself from Anders, “Yeah, Fen, he smells pretty good to me.”

 

It is common knowledge among their group that Anders and Isabela had… enjoyed one another. A run away apostate and an encouraging pirate. Fenris had not spared it much thought before disregarding the hedonistic adventures that further proved Anders’ gilded tower that he had merely been taken back. Fenris would have been killed for less.

 

However, looking at Isabela pressed into Anders side- her hand on Anders’ chest, her breasts pushed into him, her breath ghosting over his neck… it was all Fenris could see.

 

Isabela splayed out on a bed with Anders between her legs, hair free and longer perhaps, her fingers pulling and guiding him where she needs him, tugging hard at her pleasure, Anders on his back as she rides him and he can only cling to her in return, hands bruising her hips, his long fingers pinching at her breasts and their mouths locked, teeth biting, him over her, her nails raking his back, her on her hands and knees, his hand striking her rear, him taking her against a wall, her teeth on his neck-

 

Fenris slams his hands on the table as he stands. Merrill squeaks in alarm and Varric, who had been chuckling into his drink, jumps and spills his mug over his lap as Isabela merely smirks at Fenris, and Anders… Anders just looks at him. Curious and a little wary, but more concerned. Unfaltering in the knowledge that Fenris needed understanding and careful handling.

 

Maker take him.

 

The realisation was not that he didn’t at all want careful handling, nor that he wanted to drag Anders over the table and away from the pirate’s greedy hands. The realisation was that there was no conflict in himself at wanting such things. He wanted Anders to pull at  _ his _ hair, to bite at  _ his _ mouth, to plead and writhe for  _ him _ and no one else. Attraction was one thing, easily ignored, but he had lost the fight for possessiveness. The wolf in him howls and he answers its demands.

 

His nose wrinkles at the damnable scent of Anders invading his mind as he does not say a word, turning instead to the door and leaving. He collides with Hawke as he returns from the bar with Aveline in tow, the tray Hawke had been carrying clatters to the floor with an almighty crash as their drinks spill out between them.

 

“Fenris!” Aveline scolds but Fenris pays them no mind as he storms past them all. He can faintly hear Hawke demanding if anyone had tried to play fetch with him because if they had Hawke would not be pleased. It would be funny if his mind was not swallowed in the nauseating realisation.

 

He wanted a mage.

 

Not a passing want; all consuming.

 

_ Mate _ , the wolf rumbled like it had from the beginning and Fenris had tried to ignore. Wolves sensed these things, communicating in body language and it had chosen Anders from the moment it had been woken again.

 

He had not the time to tamp down the feelings like he had done before, every moment spent encouraging his wolf side only strengthening its presence, and now? Now he and it were in agreement.

 

Fenris grunts as he grips an alley wall, rubbing against its grimy surface habitually- anything to rid himself of the scent of Anders. It clung to him like one of Varric’s miasma flasks and even Lowtown’s filth couldn’t rid him entirely. May the Maker have mercy on him- he hated Anders even more for this.

  
Kind, annoying, chatty, gentle, damnable Anders. Him and his stupid warm eyes and his soft smile and his pretty fucking hair. Fenris hated him.


	12. Chapter 12

“What,” Fenris frames the word like he’s building a house, each syllable a sturdy foundation for the final touch, “is that?” Anders pictures a creaky, haunted old house in the slums of Denerim’s alienage that the elven children scurry away from, that suits Fenris to a letter. If he could have worked maybe more disdain and scorn into the clipped sentence then maybe Anders could upgrade him to a townhouse near the market with boarded up, foreboding windows but- “Mage.” Ah, Anders hear’s it now, there’s that extra smidge of disgust and frustration.

 

“It is a cat, Fenris. Surely they have them in Tevinter.”

 

Fenris’ customary snort of disdain earns the cat cuddled into Anders’ collar an extra special rub on the forehead. “They are not kept and coddled such as you are doing now, they catch vermin and are barely considered more than that themselves.” A magister could not be challenged for haughty control by a mere animal and Fenris could read the contented purring from the wretch around Anders’ neck loud and clear- it felt it was honouring Anders by riding astride him and letting him pet it, as if it were owed such treatment.

 

“Did you… did you just growl at my cat?!” Anders demands, Fenris’ eyes fixed on the calm deadpan stare the cat gave him in return.

 

“It taunts me.” Fenris growls more harshly at the disinterested yawn the cat gave, kneading it’s paws into the feathers it could reach.

 

Anders blinks, “Wait… are you jealous? No, no, wait… you’re getting territorial!” A crack of a smile broke over Anders face as he finally stood from the desk where Fenris had found him, intending to ask for potions when he found the unwelcome creature.

 

“I am not.”

 

“You are! You really, really are!” Anders’ grin widens at the rosy flush perking on Fenris’ cheeks.

 

“Your prattle will stop, mage!” Fenris makes another disgusted noise. “Keep the vermin all you like, no doubt the refugees will have him fried for supper before the week is out.”

 

Anders gasps in horror, whether sincere or not Fenris can’t tell and it unnerves him, as he covers the cat’s ears. “How could you say that in front of her?! Princess Whiskers, don’t you dare listen to a word he says, he’s just a jealous wolfie who needs a belly rub, when you’ve gone and had them all!”

 

Fenris would have objected had the confirmation that the cat had indeed stolen all Anders’ affections and attention not made him growl again, face flushed red as he whirled about and stalked from the clinic. Maker take Anders and his ridiculously named feline- may the cat get fleas and Anders regret giving pets and strokes to anyone else! He chokes as he walks, the thought vehemently coming from his baser nature and Fenris shoving it down, because as innocently greedy as his wolf side might be there was little innocence in Fenris’ mind when it came to the mage’s hands on him.

 

Barely two days pass and news comes to the Hanged Man in the form of a flyer as Varric groans about bribing more gangs to protect the clinic if the foolish mage is going to put his damned address on things. When Fenris takes the flyer he recognises the crude tabby cat drawing and blue eyes staring up from the missing poster.

 

Fenris is very rarely wrong. Not entirely. He can be disagreed with on matters where the opinions are divided but when it comes to predicting outcomes he is usually correct. He wouldn’t have been a very good bodyguard if he couldn’t anticipate matters ahead of them happening, and while he had predicted the free roaming cat would not survive long in Darktown, when he sees Anders he wishes that maybe he could have been wrong just this once.

 

The man looks distraught and Fenris cannot feel any satisfaction in having no competition- however misplaced and illogical the notion is- when Anders looks so bereft.

 

He growls, strapping his sword to his back as Merrill comforts Anders and Fenris leaves without a word. Let the softer of the pack tend to Anders hurts. He is no good for that. What Fenris is good for is action. Hunting and killing and tracking; things that require claws not hands.

 

The refugees have not seen the cat.

 

When Fenris starts to glow, suddenly they have all seen the cat.

 

The stench of Darktown masks any scent to follow, the well trodden paths a mess of hopeless to track, but it’s the small places he looks for. The stacked boxes that the cat could slip through and hide in, the too small sewer pipes that the cat could have fled into- no such luck.

 

No one among the locals looks like they have had a meal in days but there is one man with fresh, thin claw marks across his face and Fenris smirks. He can certainly admire the creature’s will to live but it does not mean he likes it still.

 

His own claws around the man’s neck and he sings like a bird, scrabbling blunt and broken nails against Fenris’ armour as he babbles about a disused warehouse in the lower tunnels- smuggler territory, Coterie. Fenris drops the man to his knees, impressing his description to memory to inform Anders. Let the mage decide if he will extend his kindness to the man again- though knowing Anders he would.

 

Fenris has a cat to find.

 

Finding turns out to be the easier part. The Coterie know of Fenris and give him a wide enough berth when they realise he isn’t there to interfere with any operations, and the pitiful scrabbling of a very stuck cat in one of the broken vats is clear indication he has found his prey.

 

Peering into the broken off tap of the vat, Fenris sees two blue eyes wide and terrified staring at him from the darkness.

 

“Come out.” Fenris grunts, receiving nothing for his effort. “It is safe.” He adds. The cat huddles tighter against the vat wall and Fenris sighs. “The ma- Anders worries for you. Come out here and I will take you to him. I will let no harm come to you.” 

 

It is useless and Fenris grows angry at having gone through all this trouble only to be halted at the final step through the cat’s own stupidity. Resisting the urge to punch the metal vat as it would only scare the cat more, Fenris remembers the asinine voice Anders used to communicate with the cat and how it was often answered- the mage’s spectacle of himself granting the cat’s favour.

 

He was alone, after all.

 

No one would know.

There was no guarantee the cat would still be here if Fenris left to get Anders now. A steeling breath steadies Fenris’ resolve until he says softly, “It’s safe, tch, tch, tch, come on…” He groans self-pityingly, “Princess… Princess Whiskers…” He tries to keep his voice light and gentle as the ridiculous name falls from his mouth.

 

Timidly, a paw appears at the lip of the broken opening, then another, then a little pink nose and in a flurry of movement Fenris finds himself clutching the cat to his chest as it scratches claws into his armour until it is settled around his neck. She is wheezing pitifully, injured no doubt, but whatever familiarity she gained from hearing the idiotic moniker has erased whatever animosity she held for him and Fenris tries not to feel the fool for the animal about his shoulders. The cat turned out to be rather warm, actually.

 

When he makes it to The Hanged Man, however, he remembers that it is rather out of character for him to be so at ease with the cat and hurriedly deposits her onto the table in front of Anders without a word. The cat gives him an unhappy noise at being dislodged but the moment she sees Anders and he sees her, the world falls away.

 

Anders shrieks at near piercing level as he scoops the cat into his arms, healing magic prickling Fenris’ brands as the mage sweeps his hands over her and coos at her.

 

”Fenris! How did- why did- you just- thank you!” The mage splutters but settles on gratitude as a raspy tongue swipes his stubbled jaw and Fenris feels every set of eyes in Varric’s suite turn to him.

 

“So that’s where you ran off to, huh?” Varric drawls.

 

Isabela lifted her tankard, “Knew you were soft somewhere.” She winks lasciviously at him as he stance stiffens.

 

“That was awfully kind of you, Fenris.” Merrill agrees, Hawke nodding with a smug, knowing look that Fenris wants to wipe from his friend’s face.

 

Fenris drops into his seat at the table like a stone. “Now the mage can cease his whining, correct?”

 

“Aw, be nice, Fenris!” Hawke scolds.

 

Anders shakes his head. “I will, thank you, Fenris.” He’s too overjoyed to even rise to the petty jab as the cat wriggles in Anders’ hold before padding across the table to sit in front of Fenris expectantly. “Uh, oh… you’ve made a friend.”

 

Fenris glares at the cat. “Just because I-” She licks him. Right on his nose, raspy and peculiar and halting his snide remark on his tongue as he is stunned into silence.

 

“Whoa, did that break Broody?”

 

“Maybe I should try that…” Anders hums, laughing as Fenris blinks and flushes hard. The cat scurries back to the warmth of Anders’ lap and Fenris firmly picks up the cards discarded on the table.

 

Anders had shown him that kindness didn’t have to be anything other than just that; a kind deed. That Fenris was not that sort of man, even if maybe he was becoming one, meant nothing. Nor did the way Anders’ soft smile eased the knot in his chest at having seen him so upset.

  
It did not mean a thing.


	13. Chapter 13

Anders’ clinic is the next stop before Hawke can retreat to The Hanged Man. Much to Fenris’ disdain, he’d thoughtfully picked all the herbs they passed on their recent excursion to surprise his favourite apostate healer with and he wasn’t passing up on the tired eyed, bright smile he was sure to receive.

 

Hawke hides his frown at the alarmingly dark circles under Anders’ eyes when he saunters into the clinic, artfully dodging the hacking cough of a patient as he does so. It is not on his agenda to catch the plague for doing a good deed.

 

“Hawke.” Anders, as expected, perks up like Dog at the sight of Hawke.

 

Two bulging arms swing wide and envelope Anders, tall as he is, into an unwashed and grubby embrace. “I knew you missed me.” 

 

Anders’ laugh is clear and unburdened, the lightness of it as much a relief as knowing he is still laughing at all. Hawke would have a few bones to pick with Justice if he could get the spirit alone for a stern talking to. “I’m just glad you’re back to see me and not bleeding all over my floor.” He pushes weakly at Hawke, not exactly one to rankle at a few bad smells considering where he lived.

 

“One time!” Anders raises an eyebrow. “Oh, shut up.” Framed with a grin, Hawke presses the herbs into Anders’ hands. “Uhm… okay, one more thing before I gotta go- got a business date with my favourite dwarf but don’t tell Sandal.” The joke falls flat between them.

 

Anders sets the bag of herbs down, the grateful smile becoming a little worn already at Hawke’s hesitance. “What did Fenris do?”

 

“How do you know it’s him?”

 

“You’ve only been around two people likely to cause trouble: Isabela and Fenris. If it was Isabela, you wouldn’t hesitate in asking.” He’s folding his arms and Hawke feels like his mother just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar, scuffing his boots in the darktown dirt as he fidgets. “So; what is it?”

 

Hawke rubs awkwardly at his neck, eyes darting to the ceiling as he parsed carefully over his words. “Okay, so he was being a bit… weird.”

 

“Wolf weird or ex-slave weird?” There’s no need to be delicate when Fenris isn’t there, and Anders is far too tired for delicate phrasing anyway.

 

“I think… wolf weird? But kind of… well, not really either, actually… more like… _ you _ weird.”

 

“I beg your pardon?!”

 

An emphatic wave of an arm the size and circumference of a tree trunk shakes off his outrage. 

 

“You know, the whispering to yourself but you’re actually talking to Justice kind of thing. The tense ‘walking it off’ as you fight with yourself sometimes. Classic inner turmoil stuff.”

 

Anders pinches his brow but shakes his head, the niggle of concern already worming at him as Hawke fidgets. Weariness tugs at his limbs but he sighs, not even thinking long when he knows what will happen is inevitable. He can’t help himself. “I’ll check up on him.” Justice makes a murmur of discontent and Anders pushes it down, not in the mood to argue.

 

Hawke grins. “I knew you liked him. Thanks, Anders.”

 

“I’m a healer; he might be sick. No ‘like’ about, Hawke.”

 

“Sure, sure.” But Hawke is half out the door already, never one to keep his darling Varric waiting as Anders slumps over his desk and tries to rub some energy into his face.

He might be exhausted and more than a little starved but there isn’t a ‘good’ time to invade Fenris’ privacy. Putting it off just prolonged the same arguments and made Anders worry for longer.

 

He waves to Lirene, half leaning on his staff as he heads for the door. Anders had never put much stock in praying to the Maker but he always found himself doing it on the off chance that he might be heard one day, and today he pleaded that Fenris might be receptive to his help. Chance would be a fine thing but when praying to a deity one might as well ask for a miracle.

 

His feet drag across each step but he manages to stand upright by the time he reaches Hightown, his gnarled tree branch of a staff passing easily for a walking stick that his youthful pride no longer protests. There were plenty of crippled people barely into their thirty summers that Anders had treated at his clinic, and if it cast a few suspicious eyes away from him then so be it. Exhaustion works in his favour as he groans and hobbles his way to Fenris’ door and knocks. 

 

It is no secret that Fenris had soured inexplicably towards him lately. Not that they were anything more than civil usually, but he had done nothing to warrant the avoidance and sharp comments this time. At least, he was fairly sure he hadn’t. Maybe Fenris’ wolf had lost it’s apparent affection for him and was now more in tune with Fenris’ ‘all mages are evil’ rule. 

 

Maybe he just hated Anders and that is never going to change, no matter how nice Anders would be. And he had been trying, extra hard, to be nice about everything. Not like he couldn’t sympathise with Fenris’ forced dual nature, and done by a blood mage no less. He and Justice were in total agreement that Fenris deserved their help. He rubs tiredly at his eyes and tries the handle, frowning as it opens. He thought Aveline had had a word about this.

 

That is a problem for another day, he thinks, looking to the stairs and calling out. “Fenris? It’s Anders, I…” Maybe saying Hawke thought Fenris was acting like Anders was not the best plan. “I wanted to check up on you.”

 

Anders waits for a moment but no response comes, unease settling in his gut far more pressing than any selfish desire to sleep. That Hawke had come to him, knowing the tension between them, only proved that Fenris had to be seriously in need of help.

 

“Fenris?” Anders calls again, his feet kicking up dust as he crosses to the foot of the stairs.

 

Still, no wrathful elf appearing above him to snarl and spit at him.

 

The unease gnaws at him harder. Professional concern, he thinks to himself even as he felt Justice do the mental equivalent of an eyeroll. 

 

His back protests but he takes the stairs two at a time until he is hovering nervously at the door of Fenris’ room. He knocks. Hard. “Fenris!” Loud, a demand now. It echoes in the grave of a house and Anders feels his neck prickle at the sound bouncing back at him. The silence persists, not even the whispers of movement that might mean Fenris is simply ignoring him as he carries on with whatever it is Fenris did in this mansion besides drink. 

 

Images of him passed out drunk, choking on his own vomit, flash before Anders’ as his mouth sets in a stern line and he wrenches the door open, lunging into the room.

 

His first thought is kidnapping. Then he remembers Danarius is dead and there is no one fool enough to think they can collar Fenris again, so his second thought is ambush. 

 

The room is in disarray with the furniture tipped haphazardly in every direction, shards of glass and crockery crunching underfoot as Anders steps cautiously further into the room. There is no blood on the floor but there is no Fenris either. Worry sinks it’s teeth into his gut, no longer the niggling gnawing of unease, as Justice murmurs unhappily that this is not professional concern. 

 

Anders wants to lash out verbally but a whisper of a sound stalls him. 

 

He waits, almost certain that it sounded like a sob, but it does not come again. Casting his gaze about the room Anders notices the conspicuously undisturbed bed tucked in the far corner.

 

There is nothing on it but struggling on creaking knees, Anders peers under it and his face splits into a wide, relieved smile. “Fenris!”

 

A tangled mop of white hair shifts, bleary rubbed-red eyes glaring at him, and it’s such a welcome sight to the things Anders had imagined. “Go away.” 

 

“Nope.” Anders is still grinning and he knows it is doing him no favours with Fenris but he can’t care. 

 

“Leave it, stop…”

 

“I’m not doing any-”

 

“Not you!” Fenris snarls, and Anders barely dodges the still clawed hand that makes a swipe for him. When Anders peers back Fenris has both his hands fisted in his hair, tugging and scratching like he’s… like he’s trying to rip himself apart.

 

“Hey, hey, don’t do that, just-” If Anders needed another reminder that Fenris wasn’t entirely, well, domesticated, then the teeth that graze the hand he outstretches are enough of a reminder. “Did you just- never mind. Fenris, will you come out of there?” Silence. “Please?” Still nothing. “If you don’t come out, I’m coming in.”

 

“Try it, mage.”

 

“You’re awfully uppity for someone hiding under a bed.” The low growl he gets in response isn’t good enough to dissuade him so Anders tugs off his boots and begins to wriggle and crawl his way under the bed. All the while Fenris makes a low growling sound much like a very pissed off cat and Anders pays it absolutely no attention. 

 

“I could kill you.” Fenris points out petulantly.

 

“You could, but I imagine you’d do it for a far better reason than my hiding under a bed with you.” Anders props himself up on his elbows as much as he can, the low hang of the bed giving him very little room to accomplish this but it helps to be able to look at Fenris in the eye. “So… now can we talk?”

 

“You have done nothing but talk since you barged in here.”

 

“True. But! I am a healer and you aren’t looking too healthy so… let me help. Magic should serve man, right? So let me serve you.” At the way Fenris’ eyes darken with something very much not anger, Anders realises that he might have phrased that better. His mouth tingles in the memory of Fenris’ mouth, the firm grasp of his hands on Anders’ body… and that was a thought better stopped right there. “Uh… I meant… you know… healing stuff. I’m a healer.”

 

“So you have said.” The drawl of that mocking tone should not be arousing. It really shouldn’t. 

 

“You know… Hawke mentioned you had been acting a bit like me lately.” Anders shrugs at the confused look. “Oh, not the handsome, witty human with authority issues parts-” Fenris scoffs and Anders ignores him. “-the muttering and the warring with yourself stuff, you know, my… Justice-y parts.”

 

Fenris snaps like a mousetrap and Anders lets the elf get a breath out before cutting off the familiar tirade. “You think to compare your demon to my… my…”

 

“Ye~es? Your what?”

 

“You know very well what, mage, or did you forget what sank it’s teeth into your neck?”

 

Anders’ hand shifts to rub at his neck, a habitual action when the scar is mentioned as it calls back the aching memory and makes Anders flush. “ _ You _ bit me, Fenris.”

 

Fenris’ lips peeled back in a growl. “No I did not. My… the… the wolf did.”

 

“Hm, I thought you said it was just a part of your nature, but still you.” 

“Of course it is not me! I do not want to do these things, it can not be me!” This close, Anders can hear the elf’s teeth grinding. “I would never want to do any of these things! I would never be so base or impulsive or want yo-”

 

It shouldn’t hurt. It doesn’t, actually, Anders realises. Not like woe and heartbreak and loss. It stings, because it’s an insult, but mostly it’s just… affirming. It isn’t anything Anders doesn’t already know, and he’d been right to keep Fenris at a distance when he couldn’t control that side of himself. Now, it appears, he’s got that bit at least under wraps. 

 

“… I know.” Anders nods slowly, the dust under the bed tickling his nose as he looks away from Fenris. “I know you wouldn’t. Any of the things that have happened lately. And perhaps you would prefer to have gone back to denying that part of yourself until it was locked away again, but who’s to say it might still have caught you off guard? At least this way, you are getting a handle on it.”

 

Fenris presses his forehead to his folded hands, looking much less the fearsome wolf he was named for and more… a lost, scared elf. “I do not… think that I am.” It takes everything in Anders to still his tongue from chipping in, just patiently waiting as Fenris chews through words like fishing in tar for the right ones. As eloquent as he is, he is not rushed. Not like Anders. “I feel like… I am losing control.” Comes the soft whisper, slipped through gritted teeth as if it takes everything in Fenris to confess it. It probably does.

 

“Well… you didn’t attack me, and you probably wanted to.” Anders points out gently. He leaves it open as to what definition of ‘attack’ it could be that Fenris might want, or rather that his ‘wolf’ might want. “And look at us; being civil and you letting me help you.”

 

“We are just talking, mage.”

 

“Talking is helping. Don’t tell me you don’t feel better when you have your manly evenings drinking wine with Hawke or Donnic, chatting away and easing each other- talking helps.” Anders thinks that’s a rather inspired bit of comfort but the grunt he gets for his trouble is, while not unexpected, not reassuring. 

 

Patience, Anders has learned, is key with Fenris. He does not like to be pushed or goaded- two things Anders is very good at- and while it isn’t normally on Anders’ agenda to cater to Fenris’ grumpiness, it is easy to nestle under the bed and just wait the testy elf out. 

 

It takes a lot less time than Anders would have guessed. 

 

“Why are you helping me, mage?”

 

“It’s what I do. I am a healer.”

 

“So you keep saying.”

 

“Is it so hard to accept that I don’t want you to suffer if I can help you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

No pause, no hesitancy. It isn’t that Fenris hasn’t got his reasons to feel like that but Anders’ head jerks up and he knocks his head off the bed frame above him. Cursing and rubbing at his scalp he looks away from Fenris. “Oh.” 

 

“I do not… hate you.”

 

“You hate what I am.”

 

“I… I suppose so. I hate mages, and yet… I trust you to a certain capacity.”

 

Anders nods. “That’s… fair. I don’t think you’d be in the rescue party if the Templars finally got me. Assuming they let me live. Either way, I understand what you mean. I trust you to have my back in a fight, like I’ll have yours. Doesn’t mean we agree or like each other.”

 

Bizarrely, Anders feels Fenris relax beside him. He’s still twitching and his eyes darting aside from time to time, but he’s calmed by Anders’ assurance of their acquaintance and it is kind of amusing.”Agreed, mage.”

 

“Ah-ah, we can’t agree. What did I just say?”

 

To add to the strangeness, Fenris laughs. More of a snort, really, but it is amusement nonetheless. Not derision or mocking, just… shared humour. Shared ground. For all they’re agreeing they do not get along, they seem to be getting along.

 

“So…” Anders coughs to cover his uncertainty, “We were talking about your wolf, right? How it’s you but not you, and you’ve… what? Been arguing with it? Out loud if Hawke’s to be believed. Which is definitely what Justice and I do, by the way, just saying.”

 

Fenris growls. “I am possessed by no demon.”

 

“As you say, serah, but I have scars from whatever you want to call it.”

 

“That is a claim mark, I- it- claimed you.” Fenris’ cheeks flush for a scant second before he’s turned away from Anders and left Anders gaping at him.

 

He had sort of figured as much but to hear Fenris admit it? Maker, he had not been prepared for that. Curse his gravelling tone and the way it seemed to render Anders stupid in the worst ways. Stupid and not at all aroused. Nope.

 

“…riiiight.” Anders swallows. “So. Uh, yeah. Not exactly what you wanted, right?” Anders jokes and shakes his head, continuing on before Fenris can speak because he does not need another thorough telling of how unappealing the elf finds him. “Anyway… what have you been arguing about with… it? Yourself? Whatever.”

 

Fenris’ ears twitch. 

 

It’s common with elves, little twitches or perks when sad or interested, Merrill did it all the time, Fenris less so. The most Anders has seen of it is when they are out on a mission and Fenris is primed for any hint of danger, a twig snapping making his ears prick, but this time Fenris’ ears are tweaked low like… like a scolded dog. Merrill’s ears droop a little when she is sad, but this was… not elf behaviour. Maybe Fenris was right and the wolf was becoming more present than Fenris could handle.

 

“I do not want to be this way.”

 

Without thinking, as Anders heart aches for the lost expression and sad voice, he reaches for Fenris and rubs the dropped ear nearest him. 

[ ](http://1000saturdaymornings.tumblr.com/post/136136849175/im-really-enjoying-akaiba-s-wolffenris)

_Art by the amazing[1000saturdaymornings](http://1000saturdaymornings.tumblr.com/)_

 

Three little circles of his thumb over the skin as his knuckles rub Fenris’ head and Anders blinks, waiting for the impending lashing out but Fenris leans into the touch like he’d been desperate for it all along. His head butts Anders’ hand when he slows, and that is something Anders is well acquainted with from cats- more, now. So Anders does it again. Rubbing at the skin of his ear as he wriggles a little closer. it isn’t protective, it’s… convenient. It’s difficult to manoeuvre under the bed, it’s simply to stop cramping. 

 

Justice pokes him for the lie but otherwise stays silent. 

 

_ I know that feeling _ , Anders thinks. He does not say it for it will get him no sympathy and he’s come to at least be at peace with his magic, but he remembers a terrified little boy staring at a burning barn and remembers wishing with all his heart that he was not the way he was. 

Fenris’ head falls lax, turned towards Anders so the mage can see the exhausted lines on his face, the rubbed red eyes and the bone deep weariness. 

 

“I am sorry.” Anders says softly. For touching Fenris unpermitted, as welcome as it is, for the torment he suffered at the hands of mages, for the duality of his nature that he did not ask for, for… for everything. He might not be able to fix it but compassion might ease it, so he keeps his hand rubbing slow soothing circles as Fenris’ eyes slide shut and Anders watches over him. 

 

_ I trust you. _

 

Enough to sleep at his side with no concerns, it seems. Anders debates trying to wriggle them both out from under the bed to tuck Fenris to sleep but looking at the elf’s slowly relaxing face it seems cruel to move him. 

 

Anders had expected Fenris’ acceptance of his wolf nature to have a backlash sooner or later, but it had taken so long it was still a surprise that as proud as Fenris walked now he was not unbreakable. If it could not be fixed by brute strength or tactical attack then Fenris needed help and the concept seemed so odd; Fenris needing help.

 

I am a healer, Anders thinks. I can help. 

 

With Justice so silent, a blessing of Fenris’ company, Anders falls asleep without being run to exhaustion and the mantra he repeats to keep himself separate from Justice does not need saying but it is habit and it’s soothing to look at Fenris’ relaxed face and see the truth of it.

 

I am a healer, I am a mage, I can help, I am good. 

 

He wakes a little while later, Fenris still blessedly asleep, and Anders takes his leave with a heavy heart. Let Fenris find some reprieve in sleep, there is no hurt his magic can heal here and he has offered what companionship he can. Anders is not keen to overstay his welcome. 

  
He is not sure he can prove to Fenris that he cares and that he means no harm, but he will try. Fenris might not trust him fully, but he trusts him enough to give him the chance to prove himself and that is enough for Anders. 

 

[ ](http://fadefox.tumblr.com/post/136158512423/youre-awfully-uppity-for-someone-hiding-under-a)

_Art by the amazing[Fadefox](http://fadefox.tumblr.com/)_

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: akaiba.tumblr.com


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